Fine Day, Sunday
by Barriss-Before-It-Was-Cool
Summary: It was not often that Enjolras could afford to take a load off and just breathe. Being always busy, always running around fighting for the people, making the world a better place and just being an all-around hero did not allow for much rest and relaxation. Sundays however… Sundays were his chill days.


A very quick one-shot that I wrote to get out of a rut I had been in at the time.

* * *

**Fine day, Sunday**

It was not often that Enjolras could afford to take a load off and just breathe. Being always busy, always running around fighting for the people, making the world a better place and just being an all-around hero did not allow for much rest and relaxation.

Sundays however… Sundays were his chill days.

After practically being coerced by Combeferre to take at least one day off per week, and after his tantrums and protests were rudely dismissed and ignored, he had yielded. And to his surprise, he had come to the conclusion that it wasn't actually so bad.

There was a schedule he had created and adhered to almost religiously: wake up at 8, shower, coffee, breakfast, laundry, tidying up, lunch. Then at midday, he would pick up whatever book he was reading at the time and head out to the Luxembourg Gardens for some nice outdoor reading for the rest of the day.

He had found this secret spot in the north-west area of the park, in the form of a stone bench which was just the right amount of hidden from view and where the sun shone at the perfect angles throughout the day. No one ever occupied that bench, which Enjolras was infinitely grateful for because, well, people.

Everything had been going excellently, until one Sunday when, to his consternation, he found his spot occupied by none other than Éponine herself, who was sitting with her back hunched over and writing furiously in that little black notebook she always carried wherever she went.

"What the hell are you doing?" he snapped at her, frustrated and pissed that his private heaven had been invaded.

"What?" she replied in equal manner, looking just as surprised that someone else had known of the place.

"That's my spot," he informed her haughtily, pointing to the bench her intruding ass was sitting on.

"Oh?" Éponine raised an eyebrow and then started making a show out of examining the surface of the bench. "Well, shockingly enough, I don't seem to see your name on it. Mine, however," she took her pen and scribbled '_Éponine'_ on the seat, "is."

He gaped at her. "Did you just desecrate public property?"

"What? No, don't be ridiculous," she replied with the most fake innocence he had ever seen. "It's mine. See? It says so right here." She pointed at her name and smiled such and annoying smirk he felt heat rise to his face.

He shoved his hand into his coat pocket and produced a pen of his own (hey, you could never know when a certain books needed their facts corrected). He stomped to the bench and furiously wrote 'Enjolras' on its backrest. "Well, looks like you didn't check well enough," he said in the most condescending tone he was capable of.

"Dude," Éponine stared at him open-mouthed, "I can't believe _you _just wrote your name on a public bench."

He smirked and pointed at the spot now bearing his name. "It's not a public bench, it's mine."

Her lips twitched and she narrowed her eyes at him. "Well, it's mine too, so I'm sure as hell not leaving."

Enjolras scoffed and sat down on the other side of the bench, pulling out his book and opening it without so much as another glance at her. "Tough."

They sat in complete silence for the rest of the afternoon, Enjolras reading his book and Éponine writing whatever she was writing in her black notebook.

At the end of the day, they both left with a rigid goodbye and promises that they would be back, name, or no name on the bench.

—-

The next few Sundays were spent in much of the same manner. Éponine still would not stop occupying _his _bench and continued to be as insolent and annoying as ever.

"Listen, this place inspires me, okay?" she said, waving her hands around, as if that would actually help prove her point. "This novel I'm writing," she held up her notebook and practically shoved it in his face, "the atmosphere of this place is perfect to get me in the right mindset. So, basically, I actually can't stop coming here," she added matter-of-factly and eyed him with a sort of triumphant look that really pissed him off. "The hell is your excuse?"

Enjolras shrugged, and he kept his eyes still focused on his book, hell bent of not looking at her for too long at a time. "I just like it here."

She gave him a withering look. "Seriously?"

"Am I ever not serious?"

"Good point," Éponine acknowledged. "Still, you could find some other place to like."

"I don't want to." And that was that.

—-

Things went on the same for the following month. They'd meet up at the bench, fight over it for a while, get too tired of the other's pigheadedness and spend the rest of the afternoon in silence.

In front of their friends, they would pretend like nothing had ever happened. They would cordially greet each other, exchange a few pleasantries here and there, then go about their respective businesses as they usually had done for the past few years since they had become acquainted.

Here in the park, however, it was almost impossible for them to stop arguing over the smallest of things.

"What _is_ your novel actually about anyway?" he asked one particularly warm Sunday, when he became too frustrated with a terrible book on avant-garde poetry he had made the mistake of borrowing from Prouvaire.

The moment he asked the question, Éponine's entire face lit up and she went into an excited ramble about the story she was writing. "It's about life, man," she said, wildly gesticulating as apparently was her habit when trying to explain something. "It's about struggles, redemption, love and – whoops!" she stopped mid-sentence as her pen flew out of her sweaty hands and fell at Enjolras' feet.

"Oh my God, can you stop being so clumsy?" he snorted and bent over to retrieve the pen.

"Fuck you," she huffed and yanked it from his hands.

"You're welcome," he mumbled, suddenly feeling the need to rub his hand against his thigh.

—-

"So, after you finish this novel of yours, will you finally stop coming here and let me live my life in peace?" he asked all of a sudden when the sound of her pen scratching out entire lines began to really get on his nerves.

"Maybe?" she replied absent-mindedly as her pen glided on the paper. "I might just keep coming for the sole purpose of making your life miserable."

"You're adorable," he sneered.

"Eat me," she retorted with that annoying dimpled smile of hers.

"Jesus you're so vulgar!" he sighed, shaking his head. "Take an example from Courgette and start acting a little more ladylike, won't you?"

Éponine straightened and her smile evaporated, leaving only a silent rage behind those clear brown eyes of hers. "Hey, fuck you, okay? I'm not like her – and it's Cosette, by the way, you really need to remember her name." She turned to face him head on.

"You see this bench, motherfucker?" she slapped his side with her notebook when he didn't move to look back at her. When they caught each other's gaze, she continued, "I used to sleep on this thing a few years ago. Yeah, that's right," she added when his eyebrows shot up in surprise, "I used to sleep in the gardens, while Cosette was in her pretty, pink, flowery wallpapered bedroom, sipping pumpkin spice lattes as she read fucking classical poetry. I didn't have the privilege of growing up a lady, so don't you fucking judge anything about me, because you have no right, you rich bourgeois son of a bitch!"

Her cheeks were red and her chest was rising slowly as she took deep, steadying breaths, and he stared at her for a moment with no expression on his face.

"In all my years I don't think I've ever gotten so many slurs thrown at me all at once," he finally said, keeping his eyes fixed on her, a small smile playing on his lips.

"Problem?" she snapped angrily.

"Nah," he replied and averted his gaze to stare at his feet, his smirk widening, "because everything you said was true."

—-

Enjolras had lost track of how many months had passed, but it was now mid-autumn and here they were, still sharing the bench for who knew what time.

"Hah!" Éponine exclaimed, and dramatically shut her notebook closed with a resounding thud. "It's done! Despite all the interruptions and distractions," she looked at him pointedly with a snarl, "the first draft is finally done!"

"Good for you," he replied flatly. "Does that mean you're gonna stop hogging my bench now?"

She wrinkled her nose, "I don't know, I'm still debating whether I should just keep coming only to piss you off or not."

Enjolras clicked his tongue and closed his own book. "Well, I'm done too. What is this, book number 187?"

"186," she corrected him with a grin, "you never finished Jehan's poetry book."

"And I still have no regrets over that."

There was a moment's silence and Enjolras stole a glance at Éponine out of the corner of his eye. She looked bored but satisfied as her fingers traced circles on her notebook; she actually looked kind of happy, which wasn't a very common emotion on her face. "Wanna switch?" he asked, holding up his finished book and eyeing the one in her hands.

She narrowed her eyes at him. "You wanna read my thing?"

"I'm bored," he shrugged, "and it's still too early to go home. Besides, it's not like you have anything better to do," he added with a smirk.

With a defeated sigh, she nodded in acknowledgement and accepted his book, exchanging it with her own.

"Good God, your handwriting is hideous," was the first thing he said the moment he opened the notebook and laid eyes on its contents.

"Okay, I changed my mind," she snapped her book shut and leaned forward to grab her notebook from his hands.

She never got to grab it, as Enjolras threw his arm behind his back and got it out of her reach. "I can manage," he chuckled at her annoyed pout. "I'm reading it," he said with finality.

"Fine! But if I hear you say anything about my handwriting, or spelling, or whatever, I'm shoving this book about – "she opened it and took a quick glance at its title, "_Romanticism and the Industrial Revolution_?" She wrinkled her nose. "Really?"

"The Romantic era came about as a revolt against aristocratic social and political norms in the 18th century, and I think that's worth reading up on," he shot back drily.

"Oh, and here I thought you were reading Musset or de Nerval," she rolled her eyes at him. "Anyway, I'll still shove it up your ass if you make any smartass comments on my writing. Capiche?"

"Yeah, yeah, capiche," he waved her off, and took a deep breath as she slowly moved away from him and sat back in her seat.

After getting used to her ugly-ass handwriting, Enjolras managed to get through the notebook fairly quickly.

The story was about a girl whose life went from acceptably comfortable to the lowest of lows imaginable. From barely surviving her parents' abuse, to living on her streets, to having her heart broken by an unrequited love, she had reached a point where most people would have withered away and given up. But even after all of the hardships, she had still managed to pull herself up from the bottom, get a job, escape her parents' grasp, rescuing her two siblings in the process, go back to school and get a degree in French literature. And after everything she even managed to fall in love again with the last person she had ever expected. A novel about loss, overcoming struggles and hope.

It was already dusk when he closed the notebook and handed it back to her.

"Well?" Éponine asked when he didn't say anything. She returned his own book, and he noticed she wasn't looking at him, but kept her gaze fixed on the darkening sky.

"It was okay," he answered simply.

She fidgeted in her seat. "It was okay?"

"Well, it still needs editing," he said and a ghost of a smile played on his lips, "but it's okay."

She scoffed and rose to her feet. "Well of course it needs editing; it's still the first draft after all."

He got up as well. "Get Jehan to look it over, I'm sure he'd be glad to help."

The sun was setting as Enjolras stood facing Éponine in front of their bench.

"So, will you be coming back next Sunday?" he asked, his face and voice completely devoid of emotion.

"Probably," she answered in the same manner. "Will you?"

"Yes," he replied and took a step forward.

"Okay," she did the same.

They met somewhere at the middle and threw their arms around each other as their lips crashed together.

His hands dug into her hips while hers grasped his shoulders, squeezing fistfuls of his shirt as their bodies pressed against each other and their lips began aching from the sheer force of their kiss.

Light had turned to darkness when their mouths finally parted and their eyes shone in the moonlight and their ragged gasps turned to steam in the cold evening air.

Enjolras brought a hand to her face and tenderly stroked her cold cheek with his thumb. "Sunday?"

With a smile, Éponine leaned forward and placed a soft peck on his lips. "Sunday."

* * *

Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed, and I'd love to know what you thought of it.


End file.
